


She's Tired of Falling

by firetoflame



Series: This Rickety Bridge Hasn't Tossed Us Yet [3]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Feelings, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Mission Fic, Natasha Feels, Natasha Needs a Hug, POV Natasha Romanov, Partnership
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 17:37:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6817303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firetoflame/pseuds/firetoflame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's been falling her whole life. She just wants someone to catch her.</p><p>"Where'd you go?" he whispers, voice gravelly from his drink.</p><p>She quirks her lips and sighs against the emotion bubbling out of her, huffing out a laugh. "Nowhere good," she says with a shrug and a tip of her head. "Probably."</p>
            </blockquote>





	She's Tired of Falling

The mission begins like all the others. With a plan. A seedy operation. Some smug asshole doing things he shouldn't be. And a multi-story warehouse in a less than stellar neighbourhood where the likelihood of her getting shot is as high as her contracting a STI from a door handle at the local McDonalds.

That is how it starts.

It ends with her stuffing a USB into her bra and kicking a gunman down a flight of stairs. There's always more though. Goons breed goons and when she looks between the railings, the line of gun-bearing, burly, masked assailants is long.

She huffs into her Comm. and Clint chuckles on the other end. She can hear the whip of arrows slicing air as he unloads his quiver from the rooftop across the street.

"I thought you were supposed to be slowing them down," she grits out.

He barks a laugh. "Trust me, Sweetheart, I am."

Well, isn't that reassuring. She twists a slim black tube from her wrist guard, closes it between her thumb and forefinger to activate the sensor, and drops it between the railings. The grenade explodes three stories down and she launches herself up the next flight on shaky arms and legs.

"Thought we were being inconspicuous?" Clint chirps through the Comm. at her.

Natasha stops at the next window, barely a peephole and glares at the rooftop across the street, rolling her eyes.

"I saw that," he says.

"I know. That was the point. And I think, if the masked men mean anything, it's that our cover is blown."

With the grenade, she buys herself another minute before intervention will be necessary. She reaches the next landing and wrenches the door open, sprinting down the hall.

"Well here I thought they were just the welcoming party."

Natasha laughs but it's cut off when she finds more men on the next floor. "Shit," she says, doubling back down the hall as they notice her and mobilize.

"Nat, you okay?"

She veers off around another doorway, slamming the door and sprinting down a longer, narrower hall to avoid the graze of machine gun fire that erupts behind her.

"Nat!" Clint says again, more urgent this time.

She huffs into the Comm., out of breath, stopping to assess her options. The footsteps are getting closer. Not just the few on this floor, but it sounds like the men in the stairwell have dug their way out. There are too many voices to follow the train of conversation, even if her Hungarian is better than Clint's. "Hawkeye, I'm going to need extraction."

"How soon?"

The door bursts open and a surge of men in black gear flood the hall.

She grabs another grenade from her wrist and whips it out behind her as she sprints. "Now," she says. The explosion rocks the floor and she hits the wall, using her arms to catapult herself forward.

"East stairwell. Window on eight," he says.

She books it, flying down the hall, and skirting into another stairwell as the bullets pound the doorframe above her. They're chasing her. Their aim is off.

She reaches the eighth floor and skids to a halt, gaping. This side of the building has bigger windows. The floor to ceiling type. Pulling her Glock, she shoots out the glass, covering her eyes as it splinters around her head. "Clint?" she says, stuttering for a second before she jumps. There's bullets spiraling up through the railings at her as she leans away, prepping her muscles for what surely is about to be the stupidest thing she's ever done.

"Jump, Tash! Now!"

She does and she's airborne, but only long enough to feel the plummet in her stomach and then the wind is knocked from her lungs as Clint's body wraps around hers and the cable retracts, hauling them up to a roof across the street.

"Ugh," she groans against his chest, feeling the ache in her muscles.

She's going to be bruised tomorrow.

But she's alive.

. . .

They stumble back to the safe house together, her arm slung over his shoulder for support as they make their way up a winding set of stairs and Clint digs an ancient looking key out of a lock box buried in a cobwebbed hole in the wall.

Before they're even inside, Natasha's doing inventory.

Her ribs are definitely bruised, but it doesn't hurt to breathe which means nothing's broken. Her ankle's a bit sore and Clint wants her to stay off it until Medical clears her, but she knows her body better than those white coats at SHIELD and she knows she'll be running the training course in forty-eight hours.

What she really wants right now is something to eat and maybe a hot shower.

Clint helps her through the living room and into the kitchen, depositing her in a chair where she proceeds to divest herself of the triggers and trappings of her work, an armada of weaponry lining up along the length of the table. She unearths a few knives that make him turn his head, a raised eyebrow saying _I never would have guessed._

He gives her a grin before returning to his exploration of the cupboards.

They're shit out of luck on the food front but there's a lone bottle of half-drunk vodka in one of the cupboards, and enough dusty glasses that if they have to sit and starve until Evac, they can at least get a nice buzz going.

Natasha nods at him when he hands her a glass. And then, when that one is gone, another.

He drops into the seat across from her, watching the way she guards her ribs, making her conscious of the action so she drops her arm, resting it on her thigh instead.

They sit like that, in silence, decompressing after what is a likely success of a mission, despite a less than conventional escape plan. It's not their finest work. Definitely going to require some fine-toothed clean up to deal with any potential witnesses. But the window will be replaced and the bullet holes patched and the bodies buried before they even step off the plane at headquarters. It's how SHIELD works.

And in the end, a job well done is one where the mission survives intact, despite the unexpected. That's what the Red Room used to tell her. She shakes her head then. That's not her anymore.

She drinks for a long time, Clint topping up her glass, until the pass of the alcohol no longer burns. Until it doesn't feel like anything. No longer comfort, just routine. "Why didn't you kill me that day?" she asks.

It seems so long ago now, but sometimes, in moments like these, when the Red Room creeps up on her, it doesn't feel nearly long enough.

"I don't know," Clint says, but it's not a pass. There's truth in his eyes when he looks at her with that dark stare. Dark despite the lightness of his eyes. It's confusion and reason and acceptance all in one. He doesn't know what exactly stayed his hand that day. Perhaps the same thing that stayed hers. His hesitation should have been his downfall. It was her chance. But still, here he sits. To have faced the Widow's bite and walked away . . . there are very few on a list that can rise to that mantel. In fact, after the blood bath she used to drown the Red Room, she thinks he might have sole custody of that list.

And maybe she doesn't know what exactly stayed his arrow that day, but sometimes, when the darkness creeps in and the dreams cling to the edges of her mind where it's hard to tell truth from lie, where her memories bleed blood and her fingertips can slice steel, she wishes he hadn't.

She takes another sip of her drink and he watches her lips where her tongue darts out to taste the vodka that's escaped towards her chin. She doesn't know why, but this heats her skin, leaving her flushed.

And sometimes, when dawn brightens again and he's knocking on her door at SHIELD, whistling and bitching about going to get coffee before briefing with Coulson, or when he's groggy from sleep but still shakes her from her nightmares, or when he's goofy and annoying and smirks at her with that crooked little smile that wrinkles his face, she's glad he didn't shoot.

She's glad she can still feel her heart kick up, even if it's just to taunt her with wants she knows she can't have. She doesn't deserve something as good and whole as Clint Barton. By no means is she fooling herself; she knows he's broken. There's history and holes and landmines from a life of abuse and hardship and fumbling with skills that are no use but to those already dead. But Clint Barton is a good man. At his core—the very center of who he is as a human being—he's deserving of more than what she is. More than blood and lies and a life made of glass. Pretty, but easily shattered.

That is what she is.

That is what she does.

And this farm boy turned carnie from Iowa doesn't deserve to be the one to have to piece her back together, not when she's still trying to figure that out for herself. She knows he feels something. Knows he's been restraining himself from acting on those feelings though. Trained in the art of seduction, Natasha knows lust when she sees it. Knows desire and want. But there's something else in Clint that she's never seen before. That she's been taught to believe was a lie. And it might just be the thing that scares her the most. So she's tried to distance herself. Keep it professional. And though she knows the heat of his skin against hers would feel right—so, _so_ right—she can't bring herself to cross that boundary because, truth be told, Clint is the first real friend she's ever had in her life.

And if she's learned anything in her line of work it's that feelings are dangerous. They make things messy and complicated. Feelings leave you compromised. And she won't challenge what they have, despite what they might have, because the risk of losing it all is too much.

He's the anchor that's tied her to shore and until she learns to float on her own again she can't risk being washed out to sea. One strong tide is all it'll take to sink her.

But then he looks at her the way he does, with those wide eyes. Wide and wondering. Like he can see into the dusty places in her mind, the ones that spin glass memories on tangled webs. A history of a life that does not belong to her, and yet, is the only one she knows.

Her chest heaves and she realizes her breath has caught in the back of her throat and her lungs have been screaming while she's been thinking. Overthinking really, because on any other job this would be easy. Lean in, give them what they want, take what she needs, and bleed their life across the downy pillowcase. Any other mark and she wouldn't hesitate.

But this isn't a mark. And maybe that's the problem.

Clint is well, _Clint_.

And he's the first man she's wanted for herself.

And she doesn't know how to do this. To ask for something that has never been given of her own accord, but at the expense of the job. In all honesty, she didn't think this was possible for her. Not after all this time and all the horrors she's seen and done and basked in.

It makes her feel young and vulnerable, fumbling along like when she was in the Red Room, trying her best not to be another notch against the concrete. Another girl that wasn't quite good enough—the weak died young.

"Tash?"

And there is was—the stupid nickname. The one that made her insides shudder because no-one had ever taken the time with her or known her so well. It feels intimate and in this moment makes her shy away from him. The heated stare, the reach of his hand across the table.

She'd get up and walk away if she knew what was good for her. Stand up and feign exhaustion and lock herself away in one of the spare rooms until extraction arrived. But she doesn't. She wants this. She wants him to reach for her.

She's been falling her whole life. _She just wants someone to catch her._

"Where'd you go?" he whispers, voice gravelly from his drink.

She quirks her lips and sighs against the emotion bubbling out of her, huffing out a laugh. "Nowhere good," she says with a shrug and a tip of her head. "Probably."

He leans forward and she knows she should pull away. Just a bit. That's all it would take, because alcohol or not, her partner is a good man. She knows this. But something stays her this time, too. Makes her tip forward even. Towards him, letting him catch her. Finally. Because she's tired of falling. His lips are cold, like ice against her, but alive and freeing, waking something within her like fire that licks up her neck and behind her ears. Flushing and warm. "Clint," she gasps.

"Please," he says to her, eyes closed, maybe in fear. Fear of rejection or anger or resentment, or maybe even that tiny glimmer of hope he's begging for. "I . . ." he pauses for breath against her lips. "If you don't want this, Tash, walk away and I'll never mention it again. But if you do, if you feel anything for me, at all, then please."

He opens his eyes then, so close, _so_ honest as she stares up at him, swallowing down the panic that threatens to consume her. "I feel everything," she tells him. Then she falls into it, hands on his cheeks, cupping his face as she moulds her lips against his, swallowing sounds and spilling these secrets she's kept locked up. There's still time to turn back, she tells herself. To pretend it doesn't mean anything. Clint would do that for her. She knows he would. And for now she's okay with that.

It doesn't have to mean everything, not all at once, but knowing that it means something, that she means something to someone, more than a namesake built on blood—well, that's everything.

Their kiss is like fire and the more she fights to contain it, the faster it consumes.

What starts at the table ends on the couch and soon his hands are exploring beyond the contours of her face, passing her shoulders and moving to cup her waist. With gentle fingers he guides the zipper of her suit down, pooling the tight leather around her hips.

His touch scolds her skin, molten against her hips where he slips beneath the hemline of her undershirt.

She groans against his mouth, shivering when his tongue runs along the line of her lips.

It's never been like this, she thinks. And suddenly she's out of her element. Her eyes snap open and a shuddery breath clogs her throat.

He startles at her noise, looking up from where he's been peppering kisses along her neck.

"What is it?" he whispers, bringing his hand up to push her hair back from her face, skirting strands of red across her temple and behind her ear.

She catches his hand with her own, shock pulling her brows tight. Another swallow. "I don't know how to do this," she confesses. "Not . . . not without a mark. An objective." She turns away from him because there's a depth to his stare that scares her. "A mission," she finishes in a broken whisper.

"I'm not a mission, Tash." He slides to the floor in front of the couch, pulling her into his lap, arms cradled around her in a way she's never been held before.

"I know."

He brushes his thumb across her lips. "What do you want? Right now." His hand falls to her heart, where it beats erratically beneath his palm. "At this very moment?"

"You," she says without hesitation, catching his eye and the small smile that curls his lips.

"Then you've got me," he says. "And we can figure this out together. We're both apart of this."

His fingertips brush across her waist, skimming the taut skin along her stomach, and her breath catches, her teeth biting into her bottom lip, a tiny, fluttering sound echoing in her throat.

"Let me do this for you?" he says, but it's a question, and his whole body stills until she has enough sense to nod.

"Yes," she breathes and he kisses her again. Harder than before. With more . . .  _everything_. It's just _more_ and she feels like she's drowning in him—the taste, the touch, the sound of skin slipping against skin. And if this is to be her downfall, she wants it. And she wants it with him.

He maneuvers her in his lap, until she's sitting with her back to his front, his lips resting against the side of her neck. His fingers dip below her waistband then and into her panties, and the friction is so nice, _so wanted_ , that she ruts up against his hand, begging him, squeezing him between her thighs until his fingers settle into just the right spot, and then she can't stop herself. She grinds herself against his hand, groaning when the heel of his palm replaces his fingers. He dips into her then, stretching her open with one, then two fingers, the tips brushing against the spots inside that make her toes curl in ecstasy. Her head tips back against his chest, breasts thrust out and back arching. He leans back against the base of the couch, freeing his other hand to toy at her nipples, brushing and stroking them to points through her undershirt, until she's squirming and rutting and crying out, hips jerking uncontrollably. His palm flattens then, placing intense pressure against her clit, and she comes hard, pleasure shooting down her spine and out through her limbs, leaving her boneless against him.

He strokes her through the aftershocks, until she shivers with sensitivity. He could continue like this, make her come again just like this, and he would, if she asked. If she held his hand to her. But she wants more. She wants him. She can feel him hard against her back and wants to know how he'd feel inside her.

She wants to know what it's like to feel his skin against hers. To move against him. To be pressed into a mattress, his weight heavy above her. She wants all these things.

Wants his lips back on hers.

He'd already given her so much. So much good. And he hadn't even taken her clothes off yet.

She lays her head against his shoulder and turns her face, reaching up to press open-mouthed kisses against his neck.

Her breath is hot and fierce and her heart thuds in her chest. His hands drift up and down her thighs, ruffling the bottom of her suit against her skin. Every so often his thumbs skim over her mound, close to where she wants him again and she arches, little moans building up and spilling out. "Mmm, Clint," she whispers. "I want you."

"How?" he asks, pressing his lips into her hair, letting his fingertips drift over her clit, stimulating her through the fabric of her pants.

"Uhhn," she sighs, latching onto his forearm, nails digging into his skin as she uses it as a counterbalance to grind herself against him again. He speeds the motion of his fingers against her, and she knows he can feel how wet she is. But she doesn't stop. Can't stop now, chasing that feeling down her spine again.

She ruts up against him, breathing hard, her thighs shaking with the effort.

He changes the motion of his fingers suddenly, rubbing circles around her nub, and her hips stutter as her inner muscles contract on a feeling of bliss. She cries out his name, dropping down against his chest to catch her breath, wondering how many times this man is going to make her come apart at the seams.

Her head lolls against him as her mind floats through the fuzzy aftermath of orgasm. When she comes to herself his hands are already wandering again, teasing her breasts, and she can feel the tight coil of pleasure thrumming in her belly.

This man, she thinks. This talented, talented man.

Before he can trace any lower and make her a writhing, rutting mess, she spins in his arms, surging up to kiss him. It's hot and needy and when he brings his hands up to cup her face, she can smell herself on his fingers and she groans, turning her head to suck his digits into her mouth.

He must find this especially hot because he bucks against her at this, reminding them both of what's waiting.

Wasting no more time, Natasha sheds her undershirt and bra, dangling her breasts in front of Clint. She pulls his head against her cleavage, encouraging his ministrations with breathy sighs as he takes to her with his lips and tongue, and _oh, god_ , the occasional scrape of his teeth. She grinds down against one of his well-muscled thighs as he sucks at her, leaving little bruises against her flesh.

His hands knead and mould where his lips cannot and he ruts up against her again, sending sparks of pleasure straight to her center. She's suddenly hyper-aware of the warm, aching need between her thighs, and the desire to be filled by him is overwhelming.

She reaches inside his pants while he's busy suckling at her tits, and wraps her hand around his length, jerking him to full hardness. In response he hisses, biting down on one pebbled nipple and Natasha thrusts forward, her other hand wrapping around Clint's neck to hold him to her.

She can feel the heat of his breath against her skin as he lingers sweet kisses between her breasts, the hot pulse of his dick in her hand, and the beating pleasure in her own core as she rubs up against him. She lets her hand graze down his shaft again, until she reaches his pubic bone, fingers slipping around his balls. She gives them a light squeeze and Clint bucks, groaning and rolling his head against her chest.

The pleasure inside her gut coils even tighter at the sounds he makes and she wants to go off like a rocket. Wants to come hard around him, her walls contracting him into oblivion.

"I want you, Clint," she says again, dragging her hand back up his shaft, pressing her thumb to the head of his cock, spreading the pre-come she finds there.

She pulls her hand out of his pants suddenly, slipping her thumb into her mouth to taste him.

He raises his head to watch her, disbelief heavy in his gaze, and to prove him otherwise, to show him how badly she wants this, she tips her head back and moans, low and guttural, grinding down against his thigh until he surges forward and tips her onto her back, crowding her beneath him. His hands drag her suit down to where she can kick it off and suddenly she's naked beneath him. Completely bare while he's mostly clothed and it makes her hot inside.

She kinda hoped they'd at least make it to the bed, but the floor is good too. She's so turned on right now she doesn't think she'd care where he takes her, so long as he fills her up to the brink of bursting.

"Tash," he moans, pressing hot kisses against her neck and rocking his hips down until his dick is grinding against her clit.

She gasps and shudders and moans, hands pulling at the muscles of his back.

His lips find her breasts again, plucking at her nipples while his hands fumble his own pants down around his ankles.

He springs free and Natasha cranes her neck down to look between them.

He's long and thick, heavy veins running up the length of his cock, the head red and swollen and dripping pre-come against her stomach.

She groans at the sight and when she rolls her hips up this time, Clint grips her ass and pulls her closer. She takes the cue to wrap her thighs around his back, ankles crossing and digging in against his spine, right above his ass.

Her hands play with the hair at the back of his neck and he brings his lips up to meet hers in a gentle, almost reverent kiss. "Are you sure?" he asks, once more.

"Yes," she breathes, pushing herself against him. "Yes, _yes_!"

She can feel the head of his cock brush over her clit. He plays with himself, making her squirm in the process because it feels so good, the length of him pressing against her, and she starts to moan, feeling a surge of wetness in her core.

He adjusts himself then, against her opening, and with one firm thrust, buries himself to the hilt, his mouth falling open in a silent groan.

She adjusts quickly, already wet, and the press of him against all her inner muscles is bliss. At least, she thinks so, until he starts moving.

"Oh," she says when he drags himself out and thrusts back in hard. "Oh, yes." She kneads at the muscles of his back. "Faster, Clint. Please. Oh. _Oh!_ "

He grunts with every thrust now, hitting her in a way that sparks bursts of pleasure through her core, reaching for the fiery pleasure that snakes down her spine again.

"Oh, please. _Please_ ," she begs and he hitches his arms up under her knees, opening her up to him as he drives himself in deeper, grunting through his nose.

"Come for me, Tash," he whispers in her ear, the hard gravel of his voice shooting right down her spine, pooling liquid heat in her core.

He snaps his hips harder, faster, panting with his efforts.

Then he pulls out suddenly, and tips back to bury his face against her pussy, lapping at their wetness. She's about to groan in protest, and demand he fuck her right  now, when he flattens his tongue against her clit, the rough edge shooting sparks up through her toes. He wraps his lips around the hard nub then and sucks hard, one, two, three times and then he's inside her again, thrusting in and out of her wetness. He buries himself to the hilt once more and she breaks, the dam overflowing with feeling and emotion and every wonderful thing she's ever experienced, rushing through her and fusing with her very cells.

Clint cries out, the tightening of her core milking his own orgasm out of him and she shudders as he comes inside her, hot spurts of come coating her insides in long, languid waves.

He breathes hard against her ear, dropping her legs and folding down against her chest. She holds him to her, revealing in the weight of him, all hard planes of muscle pinning her down, surrounding her, warming her.

When their breathing evens out and the blissed out feeling subsides, Clint shuffles up on his elbows. He watches her eyes as they dance over his, before pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. Then her chin. The side of her neck. It tickles and she giggles against him.

He smiles as his softened cock slides out of her.

She sighs with the loss of him, rubbing her legs together and already missing the feeling of him.

"How about we move this to the bed?" he asks.

Natasha chuckles. "I don't think I can walk yet."

That goes straight to his head, and his ego, splitting Clint's grin across his face. "You haven't seen anything yet, Tash. That was just the warm up."

And with that he slips his arms around her and hauls her off the floor. She kisses him while he walks with her tangled up in his arms and they barely make it to the bed before she's pawing at him again, guiding his mouth to soothe the ache between her legs.

It takes a long time, hours in fact, before they're both sated enough to snooze before the Evac arrives. Apparently it takes a while to work out months and months of unresolved sexual tension. To ease the desire that's grown between them in the months and years that they've been partners.

When they're settled and Clint's dozing, Natasha draws patterns against the lines of his chest, fingers dancing over hard muscle and soft hair, thinking again in the too quiet moments that plague her.

She already trusts Clint with her life, but did she trust him with her heart? Life was inconsequential. If someone came for her or her dripping ledger she deserved it—she knew this, logically. But to have her heart broken by him. It might just be worse than death. She didn't know how to love the way she knew he deserved. Maybe she was broken in too many pieces to hold together enough. To be strong enough for him. But she could try, she decides. He exhales and his breath blows across the top of her head. She smiles and huffs a laugh, and he just drags her closer, arms closing around her like a vice.

It wouldn't be perfect—far from it actually. But for him she could try.

And maybe, if the gods or a deity or fate thought her deserving after all this, she'd even get to keep him.


End file.
